For Thomas (On the Occasion of His Tenth Birthday)

Often you say to me, “I can’t believe you’re my mom.”
I choose to take this as a compliment.

Often I say to you, ” Please stop acting like an almost 10-year-old.”
I insist you take this as a compliment.

When I think of life a decade ago,
I wince at all my oozing pridefulness.

When you think of life a decade from now,
I pray you shine at all your humble grace.

Drum the Cello

Bits of hurried meals scatter beneath the table:
sauced penne, broccoli, bread, chocolate covered raisins.
Strands of hair fall unheard across the rooms:
brown and blonde, long and not-so-long.
Art implements cover all horizontal planes:
crayons (the floors), markers (the chairs), papers and pencils (the tables).
Everywhere my eyes see shreds, scraps, and specks.

I should try something different.
Look up, perhaps.
Look forward, even.
Try drumming the cello instead of bowing it.